Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke

by Wendy Soliman

  Lord Vincent had awoken some primeval need in her that she had not previously been troubled by. When he looked at her in a particular manner that need intensified, and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do to control it. It tugged at her on a level she had no command over, making her forget momentarily who she was supposed to be, and Nia was quite out of charity with herself for being so fanciful. She took out her frustrations on her pillows, thumping them into a comfortable nest and pulling the covers up to her chin. But sleep was still impossible to achieve and the first fingers of daylight were filtering through a gap in the curtains when she finally fell into an exhausted slumber.

  “We can’t—”

  “We promised Hannah most faithfully that we would not—”

  “But she might be unwell—”

  “Aunt Nia never sleeps late—”

  Nia sat up abruptly and blinked sleep from her eyes, torn away from a compelling dream in which Lord Vincent and she were engaged in a very interesting situation. She most particularly did not wish to part with that dream but the boys, speaking in theatrical whispers that were louder than their normal voices, had snatched it away. She would never be able to regain it, which was probably just as well. Whatever could the time be? Had she overslept? It felt as though she had only just closed her eyes but sunshine streaming through the partially closed curtains told her she was indeed being tardy.

  “Come in, boys,” she said, loud enough for her voice to reach them.

  The door burst open and Leo and Art tumbled into the room, their faces troubled. Ruff was with them and leapt onto the bed, where he set about licking Nia’s face.

  “We wondered where you were.”

  “Hannah said to leave you be.”

  “But you never sleep late, Aunt Nia.”

  “Shush, it’s all right.” They sat on the edge of her bed, sporting identical wide-eyed expressions of concern. Nia ignored her headache and smiled her reassurance. “Run and tell Hannah I shall be down directly.”

  “You won’t tell her we woke you?”

  “She said we were not to disturb you.”

  “You could never disturb me, my dears. Now off you go. Oh, and boys.” They turned in the open doorway to look back at her. “If you want to help, you could tether Ned in the middle of the lawn, or what was once a lawn before nature had her way with it. He can make himself useful by eating the grass. That will save me the trouble of finding someone to cut it for us.”

  “Yes, we can do that.”

  Off they went at breakneck speed, their footsteps and Ruff’s scrabbling claws on the boarded floor making it sound like a small army on the march. Nia smiled, indulged in a slow stretch and, for once, took her time with her ablutions. She was late, but the house had not fallen down due to her absence, so she might as well be a little later still.

  “There you are, lamb. I have breakfast prepared for you,” Hannah said. “I’m glad you slept in, for once.”

  “I didn’t mean to.” Nia yawned behind her hand. “The chores must be piling up.”

  “Don’t you worry. Everything is under control.” Hannah grinned. “I even have Miss Tilling helping with the laundry.”

  She nodded to the scullery off the kitchen to prove her point. Sure enough, Miss Tilling was there with their maid, Beth. With her clothing protected by an apron, their unwelcome house guest was half-heartedly scrubbing clothing.

  “Good heavens.” Nia’s mouth dropped open at the sight. “What did you have to do to make her offer her services?”

  “I told her you were indisposed and if she didn’t help there would be no clean clothing.”

  Nia flexed a brow. “And that was all it took?”

  “Well, I might have mentioned that Lord Vincent, or perhaps even the duke, might call and if she had nothing clean to wear, it would be no use blaming me.”

  Nia spluttered with laughter. “I did not say either of them would call.”

  “Nor did I. I merely suggested the possibility. Anyway, just leave her majesty to me and enjoy your breakfast in peace.”

  “I’m glad you exerted yourself. I should have put my foot down with her long since.”

  “Well, I intend to continue with the way I’ve started and if she doesn’t like it, there’s nothing to stop her from leaving. I don’t need you in here today. In fact, it would be better if you made yourself scarce. You’re not as tough as me and would probably give way to her pathetic excuses. Just sit outside and enjoy the sunshine. You look done in, and little wonder.”

  “I can’t do nothing. If you insist upon me going outside I shall continue weeding the garden.”

  Hannah shook her head. “At least you will have the benefit of fresh air.”

  By the time she had finished her breakfast, Nia’s headache had become a dull, bearable throb, and she felt a little more optimistic about the future. She had no reason to feel that way, at least until Sean returned and she knew where they stood with their wider concerns. But her sixth sense told her that today something of significance would happen.

  The weeding was hard physical work, but at the same time oddly rewarding. The boys were with Sophia and her grandfather, doing their sums. Apart from Ned, who was obligingly chomping away at the overgrown lawn, she had the garden to herself. Of Mr. Drake, thankfully there was no sign. She worked steadily away, removing her bonnet so she could enjoy the spring sunshine on her upturned face, not caring if it brought out more of her freckles.

  Her entire body jerked when she heard the sound of rusted hinges protesting when the side gate was opened. She was furious with her treacherous heart for doing a strange little flip at the prospect of their visitor being Lord Vincent. She glanced down at her old gown and grubby hands and winced. She ought to have worn gloves but enjoyed the feel of the soft, loamy soil slipping through her fingers too much to worry about her hands. Her hair had escaped its braid and she must look the most frightful sight. Well, she thought, standing to brush the soil from her skirts, this was who she was and it was too late to change her ways, to say nothing of her attire.

  “Papa!”

  Nia’s heart lifted. The boys would have had a clear view of the gate from an upstairs window, whereas only now as he emerged from the tunnel of trees was Nia able to recognise her brother. Sean grinned, jumped from his horse and picked both boys up together, one beneath each arm. Ruff appeared from the trees and scrabbled at Sean’s legs, tail wagging, wanting to be included in the reunion.

  “We thought you would never get back.”

  “We expected you days ago.”

  “Did you bring us anything?”

  Laughing, Sean reached into his saddlebags and threw a package to his sons. They fell to the ground and ripped it open with great enthusiasm. Sean then opened his arms to Nia and she threw herself into them.

  “Sorry to have been gone so long,” he said. “Have you managed all right?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “Yes, but you shouldn’t have to.” Sean held her at arm’s length and examined her face. “You look tired.”

  “I wish everyone would stop telling me that.” Nia summoned up a smile. “It is hardly complimentary. Now, come inside and tell me how it went.”

  “I say, Papa, this is top-notch.”

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  The boys ran off throwing a shiny new cricket ball between them, presumably looking for somewhere to set up a make-shift cricket pitch. Ruff leaped around them, caught up in the excitement.

  “See to my horse for me before you disappear, boys.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Not inside, Nia. Let’s talk out here.” Sean’s expression sobered as he glanced at the house. “Walls have ears.”

  “Oh dear, is the news as bad as we feared?”

  Sean answered her question with one of his own. “How is our grandfather?”

  “Not much change.”

  “Has he been working?”

  “Yes. Not as much as we had hoped, but…”
<
br />   Nia shrugged, seeing no necessity to elucidate. Sean understood the situation just as well as she did. Brother and sister seated themselves on a bench. Sean removed his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  “The painting the Smythes have, the supposed Trafford original, is definitely a forgery,” Sean said, sighing.

  Nia’s heart lurched. Against all the odds, she had been subconsciously hoping they had got it wrong. “You managed to see it for yourself?”

  “Yes, they live permanently in town, as you know. So I simply called, left my card and said I heard they had just acquired one of my grandfather’s works that I hadn’t previously seen. Naturally, they were delighted to show it off.” Sean shook his head. “It’s supposed to be a portrait of an unnamed gentleman painted before Grandpapa became famous.”

  “We know such works exist, of course, but they are not catalogued anywhere amongst Grandpapa’s paintings.”

  “That isn’t one of them.” Sean was emphatic. “I examined it closely, and it’s the best forgery I’ve ever seen, right down to the signature. But, it is not Grandpapa’s work.”

  “Grandpapa’s brushstrokes are long and fluid.”

  “The painter of the forgery tried to emulate that style and made a damned fine job of it. Excuse the language, Nia, but it makes me so angry that someone has taken such shameful advantage of Grandpapa’s declining health. The brushstrokes on the forgery were boxy in places and a little too lightly applied. Only someone like you or me would notice because the forgery was that good.”

  “It is as we feared then.” Nia rested her chin on her fisted hand and sighed. “Whoever did this knows Grandpapa is losing his wits.”

  “One of his protégés?”

  “I don’t see who else it could be, unless one of them spoke out about Grandpapa’s condition to a third party, but I think that unlikely. We got rid of them all expect Miss Tilling before his condition became too serious. And Miss Tilling is incapable of painting that well. Mr. Drake does not paint…”

  “What is it, Nia?” Sean asked when her words trailed off.

  “It occurred to me that Mr. Drake might somehow have used Grandpapa’s illness to his own advantage.” She screwed her features into a moue of distaste. “I would not put anything past him.”

  “Told someone else, you mean?” Nia nodded. “It’s possible, but why would he?”

  “Oh, no reason.” Nia wasn’t ready to tell Sean about Mr. Drake’s ridiculous proposal. Besides, that had only taken place yesterday. If his feelings were hurt and he was looking to spite her, he had had no time to instigate the forgery business. They now knew of three forged portraits bearing their grandfather’s signature, and they would have taken months to paint. “He has been with us constantly, so can’t have seen anyone to pass the information on. And, to the best of my knowledge, he receives no correspondence. Much as I would like it to be him, I think we can safely absolve Mr. Drake from blame.”

  “I never imagined Drake was involved,” Sean said, sending Nia curious sideways glances.

  “What do we do now? Did you see Grandpapa’s agent?”

  “Yes, Belling is beside himself with anger. He has not seen the Smythe painting, but he accepts my word for it that it’s also a forgery. Like me, he can’t think of any way to prove it.”

  “How infuriating.”

  “Even if we arranged for Grandpapa to see the painting and he claimed it was a forgery, no one would believe him. Everyone would laugh at him and say he was too demented to recognise his own early works.” Sean shook his head decisively. “I could not expose him to public ridicule. He does not deserve that.”

  “No, I agree. We, however…you and I are not demented.”

  “Which doesn’t help much,” Sean pointed out. “We could complain to the Royal Academy, but they would take no notice of us because, unlike Grandpapa, we have no standing with them. Our assertions would not be believed.”

  “No.” Nia stared glumly at the cracked paving stones beneath her feet. “I am sure they would not be.”

  “None of the owners of the forgeries would agree to them being authenticated by an independent expert for fear of learning they have been duped.” Sean shook his head. “I have now asked the question in an indirect way of all of them, and they all reacted in the same way.”

  “So we cannot spread the word that Trafford forgeries exist because none of the people who own them are prepared to embrace that possibility.”

  Sean nodded. “That about sums it up.”

  They sat in morose silence for a moment or two.

  “Which of grandfather’s students do you imagine has the talent and is devious enough to pull this off?” Sean asked.

  Nia sighed. “I shall need to think about that. Did the Smythes provide any particulars about where they purchased their painting, or how that purchase came about?”

  “They said the seller had wanted to keep the particulars confidential. They implied they had struck a good bargain, were pleased with the price they paid, and would respect his privacy as a consequence.”

  “Which is more or less what the other owners told you,” Nia said glumly.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is doing this to us, Sean, and why? What have we ever done, other than try to help struggling artists?”

  “No good deed goes unpunished.”

  Nia rolled her eyes. “I feel so angry, so impotent.” Nia clenched and unclenched her fists. “I wish there was something we could do.”

  “We’ll think of something.” Sean patted her knee. “Oversetting yourself achieves nothing.”

  “Did you make arrangements for Grandpapa’s exhibition?”

  “Yes, Belling was most obliging and it will take place in his Bond Street gallery the first week after Christmas when the ton will be in full swing. He has the arrangements in hand and I will tell you all the particulars later. He is very excited about Grandpapa’s change of direction and wanted to come down and see what he has done so far. I put him off. I would prefer him not to know how bad Grandpapa’s condition is quite yet.”

  “Yes, I agree. All I need to do now is to ensure Grandpapa produces enough works to make the exhibition a success. But,” Nia added as another thought occurred to her. “The moment Mr. Belling makes it public that Grandpapa has turned his attention to landscapes, it will make his portraits that much more valuable. The forger won’t be able to help doing more.”

  “Yes, that thought had occurred to me, which is why I asked Belling to delay advertising the exhibition. When the forger does get to hear of it, perhaps he will get careless in his haste and greed.”

  Nia nodded, far from convinced. “That is about the only chance we have of catching him.”

  “How are finances?” Sean asked. “As if I didn’t know.”

  “At crisis point. We shall have to sell something.”

  “Grandmama’s jewels it is then,” Sean said, echoing Nia’s heartfelt sigh.

  “Actually, Sophia insists we sell some of the sketches Grandpapa did of her.”

  “We can’t.”

  “That is what I tried to tell Sophia.”

  “The sketches or the jewellery.” Sean shook his head. “Neither course of action sits well with me. It makes me feel like such a failure.”

  “It’s not your fault, Sean.” Nia slid her hand into his. “If anyone is to blame it is Mama and her extravagant ways, to say nothing of Papa’s failure to control her spending.”

  “I can probably get a good price for the ruby necklace in Winchester, negating the need to go to London again.”

  “Whereas the sketches would need to be taken to specialists, or placed in Mr. Belling’s hands.” Nia sighed. “Very well. I never did like those rubies much, anyway.”

  “Sean!”

  Sophia emerged from the house in a flurry of lilac muslin and hurled herself at Nia’s brother. Laughing, Sean stood and caught her in his arms. Sean’s laughter faded and Nia abruptly jumped to her feet when they both caught sight o
f Sophia’s grave expression.

  “What is it?” Nia asked, alarmed. “Has something happened to Grandpapa?”

  “No, he is sleeping.” Sophia shook her head. “Nia, I am so very sorry. I went to get the sketches, as we agreed yesterday.” Tears rolled down her face. “They are not there. I have turned our rooms upside down and can’t find them anywhere. They must have been stolen.”

  ***

  “I think they know.” Annie twisted her hands together, her brow knotted with anxiety. “I’m that scared. Every time the mistress looks at me, it’s as though she knows. I’m sure of it. Aw, what shall we do?”

  “What do you mean, you think she knows.”

  The forger struggled to maintain his temper. He needed Annie as his eyes and ears inside Trafford’s household. She spied for him because he pretended to be in love with her. The silly chit was three farthings short of a shilling in that she believed someone of his ilk would actually look fondly upon a maid-of-all-work. But that was precisely what she did think. She actually believed that an averagely pretty face and her willingness to warm his bed was sufficient incentive for the forger to offer her a life of luxury when he had made his fortune.

  “Young Mr. Trafford has returned from London. He has been in close conversation with his sister and Miss Ash ever since. I couldn’t hear much of what they said. They shooed me away when I got too close, but they are very intense.” She looked genuinely frightened. “I don’t like it above half. What will happen to us if we get caught? I would feel that ashamed after the Traffords were kind enough to give me work. Can we not leave now?”

  The forger closed his eyes, striving to remain calm. He counted to ten, reminding himself how badly he needed Annie. “Did you get what I asked you for?”